


i got soul but i'm not a soldier

by vipereyed



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Jon Snow is DEADPOOL, Jon and the Starks Are Not Related, Marvel Inspired, Sansa is McFreaking Losing It, hints of r plus l equals j if u squint, there be angst! but no dragons sadly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-13 11:03:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16891365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipereyed/pseuds/vipereyed
Summary: Jon is adamant that he's not a hero and he's adamant that love isn't something for him. But as it so often happens, the things we convince ourselves of have a way of being proven wrong.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd. this idea came to me and wouldn't leave me alone so rather than continue my other fic i wrote this one instead, as such is life. cw for violence in this chapter.

In the end, it’s surprisingly easy to invade and shatter someone’s illusion of safety.

At least, that’s what Jon thinks to himself as he makes his way down to the Dragon’s Gate apartment complex, checking his GPS every five steps or so to check if he’s going in the right direction. The Dragon’s Gate is in a decent part of King’s Landing in the sense that it’s not comparable to Flea Bottom (though that doesn’t take much) but he still doesn’t want to be here longer than he’s supposed to.

What he’s doing, after all, is a favor.

Last week at the Seven Swords, Grey Worm had approached him with two pints in hand in the middle of Jon’s very important conversation regarding Dornish women with his favorite bartender, Sam. Jon accepted them both and thought that was that; who could turn down a free drink? Apparently, Grey Worm – no one knows his real name and Jon can’t bring himself to care – had a favor to ask and thought he was the right man for the job. His girlfriend’s best friend is being stalked by her brother, and Missandei has forbidden him from getting involved and can’t Jon help? Despite the very obvious vibes of _no_ reverberating off Jon the whole conversation (and really, ‘conversation’ is generous when it’s just Grey Worm talking about it) and his insistence that he doesn’t work for _anyone,_ somewhere after the sixth shot of tequila on his fellow bar patron’s dime, Jon says yes. He thinks.

He guesses he must have at any rate, because here he is with the telltale grey card of the Unsullied in his denim pocket, the name ‘Viserys Targaryen’ scratched across it in messy scrawl. A name that would have turned off most men in his field from the job.

For Jon, this makes it all the sweeter.

Before the youngest siblings rose to prominence in the long line of the influential Targaryen dynasty, Aerys Targaryen oversaw the continued financial success of his family by investing in real estate throughout the city – Dragons Gate being the result of one of these investments. There was no denying the man was strange but the general consensus was he knew his way around money; until whispers began that his business partner Tywin Lannister and his eldest son Rhaegar were the real heads of the dragon and wanted to remove the weakest one. Nothing much came of those rumors – Aerys died before he could do anything about it and despite the circumstances surrounding it, the death was ruled natural. Lannister started up his own business, and Rhaegar was nowhere to be found.

With no mother or immediate family, Dany and Viserys were placed with their elderly Uncle Aemon…where Jon was already staying.

Even now, some twenty years later, Jon remembers like it was yesterday. Remembers being that little six year old boy inconsolable after his mother’s death and being placed with a paternal uncle he didn’t even know. He didn’t want to go; he didn’t even know his father but the social worker smiled sadly at him and reassured him that he would love his uncle regardless. Uncle Aemon wasn’t bad but his best years were long past him and even back then Jon could tell that looking after three young children wasn’t what the man planned to do with his golden years. He was morbidly happy when Dany and her brother came, excited at the prospect of playing with children his own age instead of watching the old Boomerang shows Aemon left him to watch most days.

And soon enough Jon became close with Dany, which infuriated Viserys who leapt at every chance to hurt him physically or emotionally. “Waking the dragon” is what Viserys called the outbursts that would result from his anger being triggered, often ending with Jon bloody or bruised. And yet, in a twisted way, he still believes those times with Dany were some of the best of his life – until Rhaegar came back.

Rhaegar waltzed back into their lives with the grace of a hurricane, showing up on Aemon’s door one morning and demanding his siblings back. He had gotten married, he said, during his absence. He wanted to be a proper family now.

Jon remembers hiding at the top of the stairs, listening. Remembers the way Aemon’s voice shook as he asked, “Not the boy? Surely, you must—“ and hearing the conversation go muffled, but still making out Rhaegar’s  vehement rejection. Viserys had come upstairs, then, practically running to get his trunk packed, calling Jon a bastard the whole time, throwing some of his unwanted clothes at him and telling him he’ll need it when he becomes homeless. Jon remembers that, too, and how not long after—

“Oi! Watch where you’re fucking goin’!”

The nasally voice breaks Jon out of his trip down memory lane and he finds himself face to face with a delivery boy,  college-aged by the looks of it, and suffering from the kind of acne that is accompanied by, and mostly triggered from, working in a greasy kitchen. In fact, if Jon could sum up this kid in one word, it would be ‘greasy’. The nametag on his uniform polo reads ‘PATE’.

He hears Grey Worm’s voice in his head right then, blathering on about how Viserys always orders takeout on Fridays. He gives the boy – Pate – a shark’s smile.

“Is the food you’re delivering for one, uh, Viserys Targaryen?”

Pate sniffs at that. “Who’s asking?” He sneers as though he even has the right to ask.

Maybe there’s something to be admired in that.

***

Five minutes later and Jon is short of twenty bucks and the totally not illegal bag of mystery powder in his jacket pocket. It’s worth it, though, because he has the food and with shitty takeout comes access to the shitty building which houses an equally shitty person.

Dragon’s Gate could never be considered the slums, but Viserys’ penthouse apartment is poor by Targaryen standards compared to the luxury apartments Rhaegar and Dany live in that are featured in tabloid covers almost every other week. Jon distantly remembers reading about the fights that occurred between the siblings; Everyone vs. Viserys was pretty much what it became and while he was never one for socialite gossip, even Jon knows it was Page Six fodder for months.

He buzzes himself in, the words ‘Delivery for Viserys Targaryen’ on his tongue but the doorman, too busy watching something on his phone, waves him through almost impatiently and Jon fights back a grin; it’s a good thing Viserys has fallen on hard times, otherwise this would be near impossible.

Viserys lives on the twelfth floor and the elevator ride up reminds Jon that no matter how “broke” the fallen Targaryen might be, Jon will never blend in with the people who live here. After his upbringing he never found it in himself to trust rich people; how can he trust people who were born into privilege when he’s had to fight for everything he’s ever gotten? Even what he has isn’t a lot, but it’s marginally better than what he’s used to, and so he can never imagine himself discussing business investments and gala events with other black ties. When the elevator door opens and Jon feels like he can _breathe_ again, he begins the search for the apartment. 323, 324, 325…

328.

Jon fights back the urge to knock through the door with his body and says, in a voice that is only slightly unsteady, “Delivery for Viserys Targaryen.”

Viserys’ face hasn’t changed much since he was a child. He’s taller, that’s a given, and his face has filled out and matured while still retaining that mixture of angular harshness, not quite handsome but striking as all Targaryens are. “It’s about fucking time,” Viserys snaps as he opens the door to his apartment, which Jon notices is armed with an amount of locks that some would deem paranoid. He motions impatiently for the food; predictably, there’s no tip.

He wears his hair longer now, Jon notices, and he still has that feverish, mad glint in his eye. Jon decides to see how far the fallen Targaryen prince can last. “Remember me?” He asks, kicking the bag of food behind him and stepping closer to his former foster brother. Viserys scrambles to take a step back immediately, trying to shut the door on Jon in the process, but he’s too slow and Jon is already forcing himself through the doorway. “Do you?”

The other man shakes his head frantically, eyes going wide. “If my bastard of a brother sent you—“ his eyes widen almost comically when Jon shoves him against the wall with one hand, other fishing in his pocket for his Valyrian steel knife. Several figurines and posters fall off the wall and onto the floor, glass shards dusting their feet.

“I’d be careful about using that word if I were you.” Jon prides himself in keeping his voice measured and wonders why he almost turned this mission down, though he would never admit it to Grey Worm. Seeing Viserys squeal has been a pleasurable evening so far.

A faint crease appears on Visery’s brow before being replaced by slow realization. The recognition is delicious and Jon wishes he could record this moment, somehow. Viserys laughs humorlessly with a slow shake of his head as he lets his half-mad eyes meet Jon. “I always thought you would end up dead, bastard, but a life of crime is fitting too I suppose,” he sneers, taking Jon in the way one would regard a foul smelling odor, but the mocking gleam in his eye remains even as Jon presses the tip of the knife beneath his chin, leaking sanguine rubies against ivory skin. “What’s this all about? Do you need money from me? Need to pay off drug debts? I always knew you’d come crawling back, bastard, but this— _this_ is better than I—ah!”

Jon cuts him off with his palm pressed against his mouth. He’d forgotten how fucking annoying Viserys could be. “Listen to me and listen up real good,” he growls, satisfied when he sees the blond nod in wary agreement. “We’re not here to talk about me. I don’t need shit from you, Viserys, and I never did. I never will. What I _need_ —“ he punctuates this by dragging the knife ever so slightly harder – “is to leave your sister alone. Otherwise next time I won’t be so nice. I  told Dany I’d go easy on you, but if she demands proof that you’ll stop bothering her, I’m okay with delivering her your tongue in one of those takeout boxes you love.” Jon pulls back and smiles at him, his eyes glittering knives.

There’s fear in those violet eyes for a second before they shutter and harden again. “Get the fuck out of my apartment,” he grits out, trying to remain dignified, but Viserys has never been talented at hiding his fear; his chest heaves and silver strands stick to his forehead, matted with sweat. “Get the fuck out before I call the police, and don’t you dare come back.”  A noise that sounds suspiciously like a sob escapes from his chest.

Jon is already half way out the door, trying and failing to step over the crushed glass. It crunches under his feet but he barely feels the pain, if there is any. “Don’t give me a reason to and I’ll stay away from you as long as I live.”

He doesn’t look back.

***

Dracarys Nightclub is packed as per usual on a Friday night. Jon doesn’t think much of nightclubs – the flashing lights, sweaty bodies, and overpriced drinks don’t do it for him but he can admire that it was smart of Daenerys to invest in the club scene. She’s young, pretty, and influential; all factors for twentysomethings to hit up her businesses, desperate to befriend or hook up with the enigma that is Dany Targaryen.

Jon shows the bouncer the card Grey Worm gave him and watches as the bouncer nods before wordlessly leading him to the VIP floor. The watering hole for the offspring of Westeros’ elite, Jon can already spot a Martell or two and some Lannister’s if the flashing fuchsia and blue lights aren’t deceiving his eyes. Dany sits in a booth in a far off corner, surrounded by what he assumes are her close friends and copious amount of bottles. One of her friends, a curvaceous blond with waist-length hair, takes a hearty swig before practically sliding into Dany’s lap to whisper something in her ear. Daenerys throws her head back in laughter, laughing at an unknown joke between them as Jon approaches. She’s wearing some emerald skin tight number, silver hair braided over her shoulder in a style that no doubt half of the girls in Dracarys will be wearing next weekend. Jon can feel his heart hammer to the beat of the song as he stands by her table, waving his hand in acknowledgement.

“Hey?” The makings of a smile work her face, eyes squinted in confusion before dropping to the card in his hand. Lilac eyes, so unlike her brother’s, widen and warm in recognition. “Oh! So you’ve done it, then?” Worry crosses her doll like features and she brings her thumbnail halfway to her lip before dropping it; Jon doesn’t know why he’s pleased to notice that nail biting is a childhood habit she’s hung on to, despite becoming this person, this millennial idol who ends up in Westeros Weekly almost daily. Maybe the Daenerys he remembers is still there. “Is he hurt?”

He shakes his head no and opens his mouth to further answer, but the blond sat on her lap has other ideas. "Who’s this?” she’s attempting to be forward and seductive in the way most drunk girls do, and Jon figures maybe if he was pissed as well, he’d take her up on that silent offer.

Dany frowns and pulls her friend closer, whispering into a mass of blond hair. Her drunken friend purses her lips and nods her head fervently. “Oh yeah, this is the guy you said Grey Worm sent, right?”

Dany’s frown deepens as she mutters a “Doreah,” clearly trying to get a hold on her friend, but her friend – Doreah – will not be deterred. She turns to Jon with a predatory grin, leaning forward with elbows touching her thighs. “So who _are_ you, then?” she purrs, reaching out to pat the space next to her.

Jon feels his heart sink. Daenerys doesn’t remember him.

He realizes with a start that his brain must have sent the signal to his feet to move because he’s sitting next to Doreah, who must have been talking in the five minutes he’s felt his heartbreak and childhood replay, because he can smell her faintly-Ciroc tinged breath on his cheek and her hand on his leg. “So you’re, like, a hero then?” she flips her heavy hair over her shoulder and leans impossibly forward; Jon wonders how she hasn’t fallen off of Daenerys’ lap.

Daenerys, who’s grown bored with the whole thing already and is on her phone, no doubt looking to find another place where the night will take her. Jon pushes himself to his feet.

“Not a hero,” he says, perhaps to no one, because Doreah’s back is turned to him and she’s back to whispering and giggling and texting with Dany.

He can’t get out of Dracarys fast enough.

***

By the time he gets to the Seven Swords, Friday is bleeding into Saturday and Jon is aching for a drink. Sam grins and gives him a salute when he sees him, which Jon returns halfheartedly. The bar is in full swing at this time, the sounds of men laughing and insults, both joking and heartfelt, traveling through the area. He takes a seat at the bar stool and nods in thanks as Sam sets down a shot of tequila in front of him.

“We didn’t think you’d make it back, y’know,” Sam admits in a hushed voice as he cleans a pint glass. Jon eyes him curiously, willing him to continue. “We figured…I don’t know, maybe Viserys would get you thrown in jail or something.” He laughs awkwardly, self-consciously, and Jon knows him well enough to know that no one but Sam thought that. He grins.

“It’ll take a lot more than Viserys Targaryen to get rid of me, Tarley.”

“Cheers to that.”

Jon turns to see who’s joined their conversation and resists the urge to roll his eyes, wondering what the man beside him wants. He watches in silence as Drogo takes a seat next to him, raising his own shot of god-knows-what in cheers as he downs his drink. His dark eyes regard Jon coldly as he downs his drink, scarred eyebrow raised; the toast, on Drogo’s end, was an act of mocking and Jon knows it. No one itches for a fight, week after week, like Drogo does. He’s heard the rumors that Drogo wears his hair to his waist because he refuses to cut it until he loses a fight; everyone has.

Normally Jon would ignore him but tonight he too aches for the chance to exchange fists, to feel something. He watches the other man as he downs his own drink and summons Sam for another.

“Is there a reason you were off all night fucking with my ex girl, Snow? Or did that whore you call a mother raise you to believe tha—“

Usually it takes more than jeers about his mother to push Jon to the edge. He doesn’t care to defend anyone’s honor but as his fist connects  with Drogo’s jaw, he thinks maybe it’s worth it.

“I said it’ll take a lot more than Viserys to get rid of me, but don’t think you’re fit for the job either, Drogo.”

Drogo coughs up blood, a horrible, phlegmy mixture of a hiccup and a slow, mirthless laugh.

His fist, when Jon sees it, is only centimeters away from his face.

***

Ten minutes later, Jon sits outside on the steps of the bar, nursing a black eye and a swollen face and a cigarette but at least his pride is in place.

As long as you tell yourself you’re the best, nothing can take that pride away.

The limousine lights, when they pull up, leave Jon covering his hand to protect the bad half of his face. For a few horrifying seconds he wonders if Daenerys did, in fact, remember him after he left and followed him here to apologize; somehow the thought of the girl he considered a childhood sister finding out he brawled her ex makes him feel so much worse about this whole night, but he finds he doesn’t need to worry. He finds his nightmare is averted when two girls step out of the limo and none are decidedly Daenerys. They’re both dressed in outfits tight enough to be a second skin but the smaller of the two – a pretty young woman with doe eyes that could probably fool the roughest of men in there and a tumble of chestnut curls – looks more comfortable in it than her friend as she shoos her driver away, shaking her head all the while.

Jon recognizes the brunette as Margaery Tyrell, and wonders why the fuck a girl practically born into politics and blackmail would find herself drawn to such a seedy bar. Evidently, she feels the same, because he can hear her complaining from where she stands in the street, drawing her fur coat tighter to herself. “Honestly, Sans,” she huffs, fishing a cigarette from her purse. “I know I said I’ve spoiled you with those fancy bars and clubs, but this wasn’t the place I had in mind. Maybe somewhere less…Hells Angels and somewhere more, er, middle class. Blue collar,” she adds with a self assured nod, clearly hoping to persuade her friend.

Her friend steps into the streetlight and Jon can see the light reflecting off of her brilliantly red hair. She’s prettier than Tyrell, but Jon chalks that up to the girl – this Sans character – into looking more earnest and less likely to sell his darkest secrets to her grandmother in exchange for everything to his name. The redhead looks striking as well, but there’s something so terribly open and vulnerable in her eyes that Jon never sees in this godforsaken city. He wills himself not to choke on his cigarette like a damn fifteen year old.

“I know, Marg, but I want to see what the city is really like. The real part of it, you know? Starfall was nice but I want to talk to _real_ people!”

“Was Harry Hardyng a figment of our imaginations, then, my dear Sansa?” There’s an amused lilt to Tyrell’s voice as  the girls walk closer to the entrance. Her friend –Sansa, Jon thinks, and the name sends a weird rush to his stomach—opens her mouth to answer but her eyes fall on his before she does. Her mouth parts in horror for a second before she forces her lips into a slightly forced smile instead as she waves at him.

Jon nods at her in acknowledgement , taking another drag of his cigarette. He doesn’t count on this Sansa sitting next to him, and he certainly doesn’t count on her smiling and asking for a cigarette. He huffs but gives her one anyway, and huffs again when she asks for a light but obliges.

“I’m trying new things,” she says by way of explanation to the question he and Margaery didn’t ask. Margaery, for her part, takes in the scene with a face as though Sansa has started talking to a sentient turd. She shakes her head again and pushes her way into the Seven Swords, telling Sansa she can find her at the bar if she needs her.

They’re alone. Jon can feel his heart speed up slightly, and wonders if twenty six is too young for heart palpitations.

“Tyrell’s your friend?” he doesn’t mean for it to come off so judgmental but it does, and so he curses himself and takes another drag of his cigarette. Maybe his lungs will fail him and end the conversation before it gets worse.

“Yes,” Sansa says perhaps a tad defensively. A flush creeps up her face and neck. “I’m kind of new here and Margy is…she’s really nice. She’s helped me a lot. And, um—I don’t believe we’ve had a proper introduction. I’m Sansa.” She holds out a slender-fingered hand for introduction, which Jon gives a quick shake before retracting. He snorts.

“Most people don’t give a ‘proper introduction’ to strangers they bother for cigarettes on the stoop of a bar, but whatever floats your boat.”

He thinks Sansa might be offended, because she returns to her cigarette instead of saying anything back. They sit like that for awhile, silent but for the occasional sound of Sansa’s coughing and Jon trying not to chuckle each time it happens. He wonders where this girl is from, because she’s clearly got a story she’s itching to tell.

The door bursts open and cuts his thoughts short as Drogo stumbles out, causing Sansa to jump. Cold eyes dart from Jon to Sansa and a slow smile curves Drogo’s face. Emboldened by drink, he wraps an arm around the girl and pulls her to him, leering at Jon. “And who’s this?” His words are slurred and one of his thick hands reaches out to caress Sansa’s hair, leaving the once straight silky tresses a mess. She stiffens and turns to Jon, pupils wide in fear.

_She wanted to see the real city and now she saw it,_ a part of Jon thinks as Drogo continues trying to whisper to her. He says, loudly enough for Jon to hear, “If I could, I’d fuck you right now so Snow over here can watch. But I’m not like him,” his muscular chest rumbles with laughter, “and I know when someone isn’t mine to take.” 

Jon feels a muscle in his face twitch as he pushes himself to his feet. “Or maybe you know I’d cut your prick off if you even thought about touching her, Drogo,” his tone is lighthearted, casual, the way it always is. Drogo and him are nearly nose to nose and he watches as the other man blinks at him slowly, swaying dangerously. He loses grip on Sansa and she hurriedly grabs Jon’s hand. Jon tries not to think too much about it.

Drogo laughs, shaking his head as he backs away. “Sure, Snow,” he sneers but he’s backing away, getting into a taxi much to the dismay of the driver. He rolls down the window to the cab, yelling something at Jon that might be a curse, but Drogo is slurring too hard right now to tell.  

Sansa is still holding his hand.

She takes a steady breath, and Jon pretends not to notice tears are gathering at the corner of her eyes. He’s always been shit at comforting girls; the burdens of not having a mother past his formative years.

“Wow,” she says, finally,  voice shaking. Jon tries to extract his hand from her grip, but it only propels her to hold tighter. She looks at him through her lashes, smiling. “You’re a true hero,” she grins up at him through plump lips, and it’s too much. He forces his hand from hers as though he’s been burned.

It’s too much. “Don’t call me that,” he grits it out, aware that he’s being broody and dramatic but not caring to stop as he  half runs away from their spot on the sidewalk, ignoring the many eager honks of taxis. He’s dropped his cigarettes; fuck, he knows he’ll regret that in the morning.

He doesn’t look back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for mention of animal death

It takes Jon a week to go back to the Seven Swords.

It’s not that he’s brooding or embarrassed, really, because he’s _not._ He’s just been terribly, almost inhumanely, busy lately (four out of seven days of the week, but he won’t ever admit that) and besides, it’s really cheaper to just buy a bottle of Dornish red or Summer Islands rum from the liquor store and down that rather than pay for shot after watered down shot. Sam has texted him almost nonstop; first a string of panicked, ‘are you mad at me’ type texts, and then after Jon assured his best and oldest friend that he wasn’t, Sam would send him pictures of the usual patrons and paragraph long stories about what he’s missed so far.

Sam Tarly wasn’t someone Jon expected he would ever be friends with. They had trained for the Night’s Watch together and like a pack of fighting dogs, the other trainees had immediately seized on Sam – the easiest target. Jon could admit to finding him pathetic at first as well, if not for the fact that Tarly arrived woefully unprepared for what trainee life would consist of, physically and emotionally. Alliser Thorne, director of the training department, certainly didn’t help the matter by referring to the newest trainee as ‘Mr. Piggy’, a nickname that the others latched onto with glee. While Jon was indifferent to Sam, he hated Thorne and his antagonizing ways, and he especially hated the concept of kicking someone while they’re down. He had grown up experiencing and witnessing enough of that.

And so he struck up a tentative friendship with Sam – inviting him to the trainee pub nights, sharing stories of their childhoods together, sometimes even carpooling with one another. It was during one of those pub nights that Sam admitted he was practically forced into joining the Watch – what he would much rather be doing, he said, was to go to graduate school and become a psychologist. He already had his degree but his father frowned upon such a ‘soft’ career path and threatened to disown him if he went through with it. To spare his mother the pain, he set aside his career aspirations and joined.

Jon began to share more information about himself to his new-found friend, too. He would spill the secrets of his childhood over rounds of beer or hard liquor, leaving no parts out, but Sam never judged. He was always a good listener and wouldn’t try to give him unsolicited advice or ask intrusive questions the way that so many others had. Even now, Jon thinks that if he could pinpoint the moment their friendship truly began it would probably be one of those early pub nights, because the atmosphere just changed after that. For the first time in a long while, Jon felt _happy_. Friendship was always something that was hard to come by for him.

Sam was similarly affected; this developing friendship made him so happy, in fact, that he turned in his resignation to the Watch. “It’s not for me, but I wouldn’t take back the experience. You know, it’s like you say all the time, fuck it!” Sam had laughed, the tips of his ears turning pink as he wasn’t used to saying such obscenities, before he sobered and continued, “But thank you, Jon. I don’t think I would have realized this without you here for me.”

Jon followed suit not long afterwards, though Sam would remind him with much chagrin that being discharged was not the same as willingly handing in your resignation.

When his phone goes off again with another text from Sam, this time showing a video of a clearly drunk Theon Greyjoy attempting to take a body shot off of an unamused Sandor Clegane, Jon smiles genuinely for what might be the first time in days. He turns the television off, no longer feigning interest in whatever was playing.

Tonight, he’s going back to the Seven Swords.

***

After what feels like hours later, Jon is very, incredibly drunk. He’s lost count of how many rounds he’s bought (after he finally convinced Sam to stop giving them to him for free) to the point where the alcohol doesn’t even burn his throat anymore going down; hell, he even slings an arm around Drogo’s shoulder and jokes around with him like they’re friends.

He’s missed this, he realizes. It isn’t much – to be completely honest, anyone with a functional life would probably call this pathetic – but Seven Swords and everyone are really like his family. Like brothers that he never had.

“Of course we are!” Sam smiles, beams really, as he finishes cleaning up a glass and sets it on the table.  Jon is suddenly aware of the fact that he let such an embarrassing thought be heard out loud, and fights the blush that is trying to rise on his cheeks. “No one here really, truly hates each other. I know everyone might look a bit scary on the outside but we really are a familial environment, I suppose. Like Cheers, you ever see that show? I used to watch it with my mom all the time.”

Jon wipes a hand down his face and groans. “Did I just say that out loud?” It’s a stupid question, he knows, but the alcohol kicked in forever ago and everything is already blanketed in that warm, drunken haze. The game is playing on the TV behind the bar, drowned out by the old rock music blaring through the speakers, and Jon lets himself get lost in it. He probably has a stupid, euphoric smile on his face. He definitely does, if the way Sam is looking at him is any indication. His friend opens his mouth to say something but then stops, taking his eyes off of Jon and onto whoever walked up to the bar.

“Hey, can I get a tequila sunrise?” The voice is familiar and immediately sends a jolt through Jon, though he doesn’t know why. He can’t place it but he feels like he can, mentally running through all of the women he’s interacted with over the past few days, which admittedly isn’t much. He swivels on his bar stool to get a look at this familiar stranger—

And finds himself with an eyeful of a curtain of red hair. The owner of that beautiful hair turns towards Jon, stiffening instantly, a look of hurt crossing her face. Jon lifts his hand and offers a half hearted wave that she doesn’t respond to; by the way her eyebrows are knitting together, this only seems to anger her, and drunk as he is even Jon knows he fucked up.

“Fancy seeing you here. Uh, come here often?” He manages, running an anxious hand through his hair. Somehow, he’s forced his voice to come out casual and not at all like a nerdy freshman approaching a very pretty girl. _Nailed it, Snow._

Sansa opens her mouth to say something but whatever she is about to say is lost as her friend from last week, the Tyrell girl, pushes her way forward. Her top leaves very little to the imagination and her leather skirt shows off so much that Jon wonders if she cut it or if women’s fashion really is that risqué these days. He’s pleased to notice Sansa is dressed in something she appears more comfortable in, jeans and a cropped t-shirt.

“Sansa! I was looking for you, I really think that after our drinks here we should probably head to the Peach. Loras is coming with us but men are only free til midnight, and you know how cheap he—“ noticing that her friend is in attempted conversation with someone else, Margaery stops and then, noticing exactly who it is, narrows her eyes. “Oh, hello. Looking for more women to just dump on the sidewalk, are you?”

Jon weighs his options. He could order another round and promptly pass out, or attempt an apology. Though even the concept of saying, of acknowledging, ‘yes, I was left without a parent in my formative years and endured trauma after trauma and as a result of this I allow no one close to me and have the emotional range of a thimble’ is making the first option seem wonderful and—‘formative years’, really? Jon bites back a sigh. He’s really got to stop hanging out with Sam so much.

“Er, yeah. I mean, no! No. I’m sorry about that, really. It was a rough night, that night. I’m sorry. Sansa,” he finishes lamely, cringing, as he runs his hand through his hair for about the hundredth time tonight. He knows what he did was messed up, but in the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t terrible, right? At the very least, Tyrell claiming he ‘dumped Sansa on the sidewalk’ makes him sound like a budding murderer and the dubious expression on her face isn’t making him feel any better.

Sansa takes her lip between perfect white teeth – god, she’s so fucking pretty—and shrugs. “It’s okay,” she says finally, shrugging again. “You did help me that night, even if you were a total ass, but you helped. So you can’t be that bad, even if you never introduced yourself.”  She raises her eyebrows, and it takes Jon a minute to realize she’s teasing him.

He grins at her and from his stool does what he hopes is a good bow. “My name is Jon.” Sam takes that moment to arrive back with her drink and Sansa takes a generous sip, cringing at the taste of the alcohol. Jon’s grin widens and she smiles back at him and he feels his grin widen to the point where he must look manic. Made bold by the alcohol – _not_ by Sansa’s smile – he turns fully towards her. “So what’s a couple of good girls like you doing in a place like this?”

Margaery mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘fuck if I know’, but Sansa brightens immediately. “Well, we came here last weekend for the first time and I was just, super taken with it! It’s not much, I know, and it’s definitely not Dracarys or the Peach—“ this bit is definitely directed at Margaery, who rolls her eyes in mock annoyance, “But it’s low key and aside from that one guy everyone here is nice. These are the real people of King’s Landing, you know?” She takes another sip of her drink and Jon is floored by how genuine Sansa is, how someone like her can walk into this seedy bar and fall in love with it rather than running in the opposite direction.

He fishes his pack of cigarettes from his pocket and after he makes a gesture to Sansa, the pair of them makes their way to the exit. Damp night air greets them, sobering up Jon some as he sits down on the cold hard concrete. He wordlessly hands Sansa a cigarette and she accepts easily, fighting a pleased smile as he lights them both up.

“So,” she proclaims, taking a drag and coughing marginally less than she did the first time they met, “is this the part where you ask me to come home with you?” When Jon doesn’t answer, opting instead to flick his lighter idly (no answer is better than a ‘yeah’), she continues. “That’s what you’re doing here, isn’t it?”

Jon opts again not to answer, taking a long pull from his own cigarette. It’s an awkward question for Sansa to ask, and the fact that she’s sheltered is no surprise but that was probably the last thing he expected her to ask. “No,” he admits quietly, smoke billowing out from his lips, thick tendrils curling into the air before disappearing into the night. “No, it’s not.”

Because it isn’t, really. Not to say that Jon has never used the Seven Swords as a watering hole, because god knows he has, but he can’t picture doing that with Sansa. It’s weird, he thinks as he flicks ash off of his cigarette, how someone can be essentially nothing to you and yet somehow worth more than a bar hookup. He doesn’t know what he wants with Sansa – if he wants anything – but he knows she doesn’t deserve the one night treatment.

That seems to take Sansa by surprise, and she raises an eyebrow, lips parting. “Really?” She squints at him as though trying to decipher the answer to an unasked question and Jon tries hard not to falter under her gaze. “So what’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?” Her hand makes a sweeping movement at the bar behind them, the neon sign illuminating her pale skin purple as she grins, unable to hide her amusement at reiterating his earlier words.

“My mother is dead.” It takes a second –a heavy, excruciating second in which Jon wants to kick the Jon of five seconds past in the ass for saying something so, incredibly stupid – for the words to land but when they do the atmosphere changes immediately. Sansa is horrified, he can tell that much, her mouth opening and closing as she works out what to say. Her eyes look suspiciously misty and Jon curses under his breath; really, the conversation didn’t even call for that. He desperately hopes that Sansa is aware that he has, in fact, socialized with other people and knows somewhat how to be normal. She opens her mouth to speak, but Jon shakes his head, an inky curl falling into his face. “Don’t. It happened years ago. Twenty years ago. I’m all good about it. I’m just telling you that that’s what I’m doing here.  It’s full of fucking weirdos, and misfits, and damaged people, so I fit right in.”

Sansa considers him for a moment and moves closer, close enough where their knees touch. “That’s fitting,” she breathes a watery laugh and stubs her cigarette out on the stoop, leaving a small spark and ashes. “My mother is dead too. Both my parents, actually.” She’s not looking at him as she says this, leaving her eyes trained on the sidewalk as she lifts a hand to wipe at her eyes.

“Hey,” Jon begins, placing what he hopes is a comforting hand on her knee. “Don’t go making this into a contest, alright? Because I’d hate to see you lose.” He cracks a small, lopsided grin at her. She raises  her head to look at him, a smile gracing her tear-streaked face.

“I left an abusive relationship awhile back.”

Jon quirks an eyebrow. “I grew up in foster care.”

“My ex killed my dog.”

“I grew up in foster care…with Viserys Targaryen.”

Sansa laughs shortly, then grimaces at the morbidity of the situation. “Okay, fine,” she  concedes, lifting her hands in surrender. “You win…this time.”

Jon doesn’t know when it happened. One moment he was staring at Sansa, the smirk on his face gloating his success, and the next his lips were pressed against hers in a hot, fervent kiss. Sansa kisses with an intensity that he wasn’t expecting from her and he wonders if this girl will ever stop surprising him. A small part of him hopes not.

He can’t tell you he knows what he wants with Sansa, but as she sighs content against his mouth, Jon knows this – he wants to fucking devour her.

That’s what he’s thinking as they flag down a taxi, exploring each other’s mouths the whole time. The way she whispers his name makes him shudder, brings a rush of emotions long repressed to his chest and—

This isn’t, and won’t be, good. That he knows. But he wants this, wants Sansa, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are always appreciated! i am so chuffed by how much u guys seem to love it already and hope u like this!


	3. Chapter 3

“Do you believe in love?”

Jon tries not to stiffen visibly from his spot on the bed when Sansa asks The Question, wrapped up in his old oversized Night’s Watch shirt, deliciously rumpled hair serving as a reminder to what they had been previously doing. It’s been a little over three months since that fateful night at the Seven Swords, and he doesn’t know when exactly Sansa’s things began to sneak into his apartment or when they became so wrapped around each other. It all just fell into place and their routines worked around one another, complimented another even, and Jon never had to question it. Until now.

What he does know is this: Sansa has a lot of fucking siblings, three brothers and a sister that she barely talks to anymore because of her last relationship and she doesn’t know how to break the ice again. She loves Dornish food and Dornish wine, but Chinese takeaway is her absolute favorite. She studied at King’s Landing University and majored in Literature, which helped her land the job as an editor for The Chronicle, which is how she and Margaery became friends. She loves to watch Florian and Jonquil, both the original and the remake. Jon knows exactly how she takes her tea (three sugars) and how she takes her coffee (only iced) and he is one hundred percent certain she knows almost everything about him as well; the details of his lonely childhood, his scars, his job as a fucking twenty first century mercenary. He can practically _hear_ the voice in the back of his mind (which sounds suspiciously like Sam, the fucker) telling him, “You’re in love with her, man.”

The sound of his sheet rustling grabs his attention, and he blinks to find Sansa hugging her knees to her chest and gazing at him expectantly, eyebrows arched. Jon knows that look by now, and can even try to appreciate the view, but he knows she won’t appreciate the distraction. “I—“ he begins intelligently, and pauses to think of the right thing to say because damn it, he will not fuck this up. He just needs to make sure he doesn’t sound like a brooding fourteen year old, which, knowing himself, is prone to happen. “Of course I believe in love,” he settles on, pulling her closer to him. “I don’t think it’s like the fairytales, though. It’s really something that’s—“ he pauses again, cursing himself for not being as eloquent and effective with his words like Sam is, “It’s not for everyone,” he finishes lamely, brows knitting together as Sansa visibly deflates. “What’s up?”

Sansa just shakes her head, the beginnings of a frown threatening to capture her lips. “Of course it’s for everyone,” she says as though it should be obvious, like they’re debating on whether the sky is blue as opposed to her kind-of-but-not-quite boyfriend’s emotional and intimacy issues. “You just have to…I dunno. You’ve got to accept it, and just run with it. You can’t live without love.” She looks put out at the mere thought of it, and Jon fails at fighting back a smile when her hand finds his and squeezes. Fails at trying to calm his rapidly beating heart, betraying him as though he’s some high school kid on a date and not a twenty six year old man.

“I guess, yeah.” He concedes after a beat, leaning down to capture her lips in a sweet, chaste kiss. She’s beaming when he pulls away and if there’s a way to be more fucked than he already is, Jon thinks he’s found it.

“There’s someone for everyone.” Sansa’s voice is reverent, her eyes directly on his as she says so, and Jon briefly wonders if there’s a world record for how quickly one can fall for another person, because seven hells he’s past getting there, he’s only digging his grave deeper and deeper – the metaphorical grave might be hitting the earth’s core by now. He’s perfectly aware that his smile is a bit manic, but ever the angel, Sansa isn’t put off by it. Quite the opposite, really, as she moves to straddle him before claiming his lips in a passionate, bruising kiss, her tongue seeking out his instinctually.

As Jon stares at her face above his, her normally impeccable hair a mess of auburn curls and her lips swollen and plump from kissing, he thinks that there must be someone for everyone. Maybe she’s right, because Jon has no idea how he’s lived without this for so long.

***

The first time Jon passes out is a Friday at the bar. He doesn’t know how it happens; one minute he’s talking and laughing animatedly with Sam and Edd, one of the few he liked from the Watch. Their voices keep filtering in and out around him, and Jon is dimly aware that someone keeps repeating “What? What?” at everything before realizing it must be him, because everyone is looking at him with confusion etched on their faces. The next thing he’s aware of is waking up under the type of abysmal, fluorescent lighting that can only be found in bar bathrooms, his face damp and a nervous Sam looming over him. Sam breathes a sigh of relief at seeing his eyes open and tosses a wet paper towel – which Jon reflects must be the source of the strange moisture on his face and thankfully not his friend’s tears – into the bin.

“Wasn’t even that drunk,” Jon croaks out, forcing his body to assemble into a sitting position. It’s true – for all the times he’s been drunk, this is nowhere near the worst of it. That passed long before Sansa came into the picture. Or around the same time, depending on who you ask.

“Yeah,” Sam remarks, but doesn’t look convinced. He shifts uneasily, and Jon accepts his hand when he offers it to help him up wordlessly. “Maybe you should, uh, go home and get some rest. Drink water.” It’s rookie level advice, but Jon can’t find it in himself to be annoyed.

There’s an inelegant snort from the other end of the bathroom. “You look like shit, kid,” Edd supplies unhelpfully and Jon opens his mouth to protest but his former trainee cuts him off. “Go home, before you piss all over yourself next time. There’s nothing worse than that, and I’ll take pictures.”

Consider that matter settled, then.

The second time he passes out is rather uneventful, as far as fainting goes – he’s alone in his apartment catching up on Dance of the Dragons when the room begins to move. Everything distorts slowly and Jon is reminded of being underwater. That’s the last thing he remembers thinking before Sansa finds him later on, shaking him impatiently to wake up because has he forgotten they had plans with Marg today and they’re leaving, apparently, in fifteen minutes. Despite the dizziness and pounding in his head as he moves to get dressed, Jon knows he won’t tell Sansa; she doesn’t need to worry about this. He’s fine.

***

Operation Don’t Tell Sansa goes spectacularly bad and not according to plan at all when Jon finds himself face-down in his cereal over breakfast one morning. “You,” Sansa exhales shakily, and there’s tears staining her cheeks and milk staining Jon’s and this is perhaps one of his least dignified moments, “Are going to the hospital. End of discussion.”

Which is how he’s ended up here, in Doctor Cressen’s office, surrounded by various scans and x-rays of body parts he cannot name, majority of them marred with ominous looking circles. There’s a feeling in his gut that he can’t shake, and Jon is suddenly glad that he had begged Margaery to have her grandmother make sure Sansa couldn’t get today off to come with him. It was another notch against him in Margaery’s book, but she did it all the same.

Cressen is an old man, likely past his retirement, and moves with a slowness so agonizing that Jon is half tempted to move the man’s desk closer to him so he can get this diagnosis business out of the way already. After what feels like an eternity Cressen reaches his desk and Jon notices the other man’s hands are shaking, though he’s in no position to judge; he’s toyed with a small rip on his joggers so much during this torturous wait it’s a wonder they haven’t gone threadbare.  The lack of warmth, physical and general, in the office isn’t making him feel any better. Various plaques, awards, and accolades decorate the room but it doesn’t feel lived in or cozy; there’s no homage to the doctor’s personal life. Jon wonders if he has a life outside of work, or if he’s thrown himself into his studies. Judging by the plaques, his assumption is correct.

“Mr. Snow, my dear boy,” Cressen’s voice is surprisingly strong despite his frail physical health and clinical in spite of his clear attempt to build some type of doctor-patient relationship. “In looking over the results of your scans, we have found…several abnormal growths. Tumors,” he clarifies, lifting a shaky finger to point them out. “I regret to inform you, Mr. Snow, that these particular tumors are indicative of a type of cancer. The type of cancer, to be exact—“

Cancer.

Jon feels the blood drain out of his body slowly, can hear nothing but his heart pounding in his chest and the roaring in his ears. This isn’t happening to him, that has to be the only explanation. He’s dreaming and he’ll wake up soon to the smell of Sansa making pancakes and—

_Sansa._

He needs to not think about himself right now. He needs to think about this like it’s one of his jobs, like it’s task and goal oriented. Like he’s running on autopilot, which he definitely is.

“Am I going to die?” He asks in a voice which he’s sure isn’t his own, but judging by the way his doctor blinks, it definitely is.

If possible, Cressen’s hands begin to shake even more – though with nerves or the possibility of explaining more medical jargon, Jon can’t be sure. “If we had caught this earlier, Mr. Snow…for now, though, we can go over treatment plans to ensure your months to come will be comfortable.”

Treatment plans? Jon’s breath hitches; no, he’s definitely a goner. He realizes he can’t and won’t put Sansa through any of this. He was morbidly lucky enough in the sense that with his own mother’s death, she didn’t suffer. It was a terrible accident that turned his world upside down but it would have been worse if he was forced to watch as his mother perished from an incurable illness. He can’t put himself through that, either. He gives a resolute shake of his head. “No,” he grits out.

Cressen, for his part, looks unfazed. “I assure you, Mr. Snow, while this is not a cure, the treatment won’t hurt. It will certainly improve your…quality of life.”

Jon gives another firm shake of his head, ready to _assure_ Cressen, who is rapidly wearing on his last nerve, when the doctor interrupts before he can even begin, “Is it a matter of religion, Mr. Snow?” and then clarifying when Jon doesn’t answer right away, “That makes you so adverse to treatment.”

“I’m interested in alternative healing.” Jon blurts it out before he’s even aware of it, though he supposes it’s true. It is true, in the sense of less crystal healing, more drinking himself into sweet, alcohol poisoned oblivion.

The doctor eyes him warily, but acquiesces and gives him his card ‘in case he decides to come back’. Jon crumples it up and tosses it in his empty cigarette carton before discarding them both.

He already knows he’s not coming back.

***

Maybe he really does have a latent interest in alternative medicine. Jon can’t think of another reason why he’d willingly walk around Flea Bottom, entranced by the flashing neon sign which in its fluorescent simplicity reads ‘MELISANDRE’S’.

The taste of Southern Comfort haunts his tongue when he swallows, and he snorts. Definitely not some subconscious interest, this decision has everything to do with the two miniature whiskey bottles he consumed after leaving Cressen’s office.

Melisandre’s, like almost all of the property in this particular slum of Flea Bottom, lay cramped between buildings. The brick building is the opposite of imposing – it’s rather on the ‘blink and you’ll miss it’ side of the spectrum – and both window curtains are drawn. They’re red, Jon notes, and briefly hopes he won’t be venturing into anything unsavory.

He opens the door anyway, his eyes immediately assaulted by the sheer amount of _redness_. Plush, burgundy velvet furniture fills the room, which Jon realizes is lit only by candlelight. The wallpaper and carpet, both having seen better days, are the same garnet color as well. A crackling alerts him to the fact that a fireplace has been roaring into existence from its spot in the corner, where a woman who is presumably Melisandre, kneels –no, worships—in front of the flames, muttering in strange tongues.

Jon watches the mysterious woman, her blood-red gown identifying her as a Red Priestess, a believer in some god named R’hllor. He’s dodged leaflets from the proclaimed Lord of Light’s followers many times in his years in King’s Landing. At feeling his eyes on her, Melisandre murmurs again in that incoherent language except this time it sounds like finality to whatever chant she was engaged in. In one fluid motion she rises gracefully, turning to look at her guest. The first thing Jon notices about her is that she’s quite pretty in an ethereal way; her dress is long and the bodice does nothing to hide her curves. The firelight illuminates her pale skin, turning her waist-length hair –even her hair is red—and the large ruby worn around a simple gold chain strung on her neck impossibly redder.

Full lips smile at him as she eyes him appraisingly. “The flames speak to me of death, and yet nothing but life comes through to me.” Her voice is melodic, lilting, nothing that Jon expects it to be. There’s an entrancing quality to it, just like the sign outside; if he were easily imposed, perhaps Jon would find himself studying the strange god of Asshai with her.

“I don’t know about that,” he admits, exhaling a shaky breath and running a hand through his curls. “I, er, I’ve got cancer.” Seven hells, it doesn’t get easier saying or hearing that.

“You want me to heal you.” It’s a statement, not a question, but Jon finds himself nodding regardless of how discomforted he is that she knows what he is seeking already. “Very well.” Grabbing  a candle and a veil (red, of course), Jon can only watch as the enigma in front of him crosses the small room and sheds light on a cage of some sort. He can discern shadows moving about and he finds himself running a hand through his hair again in a nervous gesture, unable to do more than watch, fraught with nerves as Melisandre drapes the veil around herself.  His eyes widen a fraction as the candlelight catches the cage at the right angle and he can see what’s inside.

“Are those leeches?”

Melisandre ignores his question. “You cannot rid one enemy without removing another. The disease devours you and like all negative space and energy, needs a conduit to be rid of completely. There is power in blood, magic you may say, even in diseased blood,” her eyes flit over him for a beat, “Especially in warrior’s blood.”

Fucking Stranger almighty, this is so far from the few crystals Jon thought he would originally be leaving with. For the first time he feels true discomfort grip his stomach, iron settling in his lungs.  He smells her—ash and smoke and something woodsy—before he realizes Melisandre is next to him, eyes rich with interest as she inclines her head towards the hearth. Two pillows await the both of them and Jon sits hesitantly on his while the Priestess kneels down on hers, eyes on the flames as she bows her head in prayer, words in a language Jon does not know once again tumbling from her mouth. Her fingers encircle his wrist and she gasps immediately, chanting forgotten.

“Heart of Fire, Lord of Light. My Lord has shown to me all that you have suffered, and all of which you will. Deserted watcher of the night, the Stranger reborn! You have hidden your heart behind walls and walls of stone, dearest, but it will only hurt you. You will need her, in the end, if purpose is what you desire. You speak to me of your diseased body but my Lord has shown me only life and sorrow, my dear, I am sorry for the many ghosts that swim about you,” her thin fingers grip impossibly tighter around him but Jon’s body doesn’t register the pain, he’s paralyzed with fear and awe as he watches her. For the first time since they started, she tears her eyes away from the fire and looks directly at him, the ruby around her neck glowing and pulsing with energy. Her eyes are glassy. “Beware, Jon Snow, of the hummingbird who delivers to you false promises. He will bring forth your downfall!” With a cry Melisandre releases him and prostrates once again in front of the crackling hearth, the flames bringing heat to her cheeks like a lover would as she whispers reverently into the fire. Jon takes his chance to leave, almost knocking over the candles as he crosses the room and only breathing once he’s safely outside, the cool air welcoming to his heated face.

It doesn’t register until he’s a few blocks away that he never told Melisandre his name.

***

Jon tells himself he _deserves_ to go to the Seven Swords that night, after whatever the fuck happened at Melisandre’s. He doesn’t tell Sam about that; he hasn’t even told Sam about The Big C, and swallows the guilt down at having not told Sansa either or even sending her a text since he left the hospital.

“How’s Sansa?” Speaking of things he doesn’t want to talk about. Jon resists the urge to groan at his best friend’s question, wrinkling his nose as the smell of mint invades the vicinity. There’s nothing that irks him more than cheap cologne.

“She’s fine,” he replies casually, scoffing at the source of that horrid mint smell – a slight, thirty-something man who slides Sam an ample tip for the evening. Jon marvels at how someone with such cheap, minty cologne can give a good gratuity.

After what feels like an infinite amount of shots later, Jon spills the beans of his diagnosis to Sam. The rather casual, “I have cancer” has Sam becoming a blubbery mess and Jon shaking his head and dragging his hand across his own throat in a gesture to get him to _cut it the fuck out, please, and thanks_. He’s never been one for massive displays of emotion and thankfully Sam gets the hint and claps him on the back awkwardly instead as that minty smell invades Jon’s senses again, now-familiar though he wishes it wasn’t. The dark haired stranger slides him a card and inclines his head towards a booth in the back. Wordlessly, Jon follows as Sam observes, eyes intent with interest.

“Y’know, I don’t really slide that way,” Jon slurs as he falls, gracelessly, into the tattered booth. His new companion regards him with a lazy interest; there’s a pin on his jacket that the light keeps catching, shaped like a bird of some sort, and why he wore a blazer to a dive bar is beyond Jon.

“I’m afraid I don’t either,” the stranger replies easily. His fingers rose to the pointed tuft of hair on his chin, stroking the beard in contemplation. “You will find what I have to offer you is worth much more than a sexual encounter, my friend.”

Jon barks a laugh at that. He’s never been one to fall prey to schemes easily, and despite his easy ability to say yes when drunk, the thought of falling into a pyramid scheme isn’t appealing. “And what’s that?”

“You have cancer, you said.” Murky green eyes find Jon’s near-black ones and regard him with something he finds he is too drunk to read correctly. He smiles a slow, well-practiced smile that Jon notices doesn’t reach his eyes. “I have a cure.” Manicured fingers reach out to the card on his side of the table and flip it over, revealing a name. Petyr Baelish.

“There is no _cure_ ,” Jon snaps, feeling irritation build up inside him. If it’s money that this Baelish is looking for, to extract under the guise of curing an impossible ailment, he’ll be sorely disappointed.

That smile only widens, despite the hardness of his eyes. “I’ve helped people like you before. You have nothing to lose, regardless.” There’s a mocking undercurrent to those words, but the smile never slips.

What does he have to lose, anyway?

***

The apartment is quiet when Jon finally returns past three AM. Sansa probably went and had a night out with Margaery and Loras; his heart clenches uncomfortably  at that, at the thought that Sansa’s been waiting for his text, beside herself with worry at not hearing from him for hours.

With what he’s about to do, dwelling on that relatively small matter won’t help.

Jon sighs as he kicks his sneakers off; his heart and body still feeling like they’re made out of lead as he makes his way into the living room, grabbing a pen and some paper. He needs to do this right, even if it’s killing him literally and figuratively. Sansa doesn’t need to be burdened by the journey that he’ll be undergoing, and who’s to say if it’ll even work out? At least this way she’ll have a chance to move on and find happiness without knowing more loss.

Unable to think of what to write, he turns the television on, rolling his eyes fondly as he sees it’s a rerun of Florian and Jonquil; of course Sansa had been watching it earlier. He recognizes this as the older version his mother used to watch, and isn’t that something. Yesterday and today, evidently, aren’t holding back any punches.

_“Florian, my love, you cannot leave me!”_ Jonquil is sobbing prettily on the screen, her face the picture of agony. Now three quarters into his letter, Jon looks up – is that Cersei Lannister?—before promptly returning to his ‘Dear John’ letter and trying to tune out the scene.

_“I have to, my dearest Jonquil! I assure you, it is for your own protection. You must know how it pains me so to do such a thing.”_ Florian declares, kneeling in front of his royal love. Jon represses a snort; he had forgotten they casted Jaime Lannister to play Florian and the subsequent media buzz it caused.

_“I will count the days without you, my knight! I will die inside each night until your valiant return. When shall I be blessed to see you again, Florian? When?”_

_“I am afraid you already know the answer, Jonquil. I am never to return. Perhaps I have been foolish, but it is worth it, for in the end I have known this great love. Yes, my sweet lady, I lo—“_

With more force than was perhaps necessary, Jon turns off the television and slams the remote down. These past few days have been hard enough; he doesn’t need fictional characters to guilt trip him into reconsidering his own circumstances, even if they are uncannily mirroring his own.

Sighing, he places the letter on the coffee table where he knows Sansa will see it as he looks around his the dark apartment. As he leaves his apartment for the last time, he can remember his mother’s voice, distinct and clear as day, telling him that love means never having to say you’re sorry.

Well. That’s what he’s doing, isn’t it? He’ll never have to be sorry for the pit of loss that Sansa will inevitably feel if he stays and wastes away, because it won’t happen.

As Jon types the address on Petyr’s card into his GPS, he tries to convince himself he’s making the right decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again floored by all of the comments and kudos! thank you so much and i hope you enjoy this chapter!! things will look up, i promise <3 melisandre was a little hard to write haha! pls comment and kudos if you liked :)

**Author's Note:**

> subscribe for updates, comment n kudos if you like or for some concrit! <3


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